Poem
María Mercedes Carranza
The motherland
This house of thick colonial wallsand a very nineteenth-century patio with azaleas
has been crumbling down since several centuries.
As if nothing were happening persons come and go
from one collapsing room to another,
they make love, they dance, they write letters
Bullets often whistle or maybe it’s the wind
whistling through the hole in the broken-down ceiling.
In this house the living sleep with the dead,
they ape their customs, they repeat their grimaces
and when they sing, they sing their failures.
Everything is ruins in this house,
the embrace and the music are ruins,
destiny, all mornings, laughter are ruins,
as are tears, silence, dreams.
The windows show obliterated landscapes,
flesh and ashes get mixed up in the faces,
words are jumbled up with fear in the mouths.
In this house we are all buried alive.
© Translation: 2004, Nicolás Suescún
La patria
La patria
Esta casa de espesas paredes colonialesy un patio de azaleas muy decimonónico
hace varios siglos que se viene abajo.
Como si nada las personas van y vienen
por las habitaciones en ruina,
hacen el amor, bailan, escriben cartas.
A menudo silban balas o es tal vez el viento
que silba a través del techo desfondado.
En esta casa los vivos duermen con los muertos,
imitan sus costumbres, repiten sus gestos
y cuando cantan, cantan sus fracasos.
Todo es ruina en esta casa,
están en ruina el abrazo y la música,
el destino, cada mañana, la risa son ruina,
las lágrimas, el silencio, los sueños.
Las ventanas muestran paisajes destruidos,
carne y ceniza se confunden en las caras,
en las bocas las palabras se revuelven con el miedo.
En esta casa todos estamos enterrados vivos.
From: Hola, soledad
Publisher: Editorial Oveja Negra, Bogotá
Publisher: Editorial Oveja Negra, Bogotá
Poems
Poems of María Mercedes Carranza
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The motherland
This house of thick colonial wallsand a very nineteenth-century patio with azaleas
has been crumbling down since several centuries.
As if nothing were happening persons come and go
from one collapsing room to another,
they make love, they dance, they write letters
Bullets often whistle or maybe it’s the wind
whistling through the hole in the broken-down ceiling.
In this house the living sleep with the dead,
they ape their customs, they repeat their grimaces
and when they sing, they sing their failures.
Everything is ruins in this house,
the embrace and the music are ruins,
destiny, all mornings, laughter are ruins,
as are tears, silence, dreams.
The windows show obliterated landscapes,
flesh and ashes get mixed up in the faces,
words are jumbled up with fear in the mouths.
In this house we are all buried alive.
© 2004, Nicolás Suescún
From: Hola, soledad
From: Hola, soledad
The motherland
This house of thick colonial wallsand a very nineteenth-century patio with azaleas
has been crumbling down since several centuries.
As if nothing were happening persons come and go
from one collapsing room to another,
they make love, they dance, they write letters
Bullets often whistle or maybe it’s the wind
whistling through the hole in the broken-down ceiling.
In this house the living sleep with the dead,
they ape their customs, they repeat their grimaces
and when they sing, they sing their failures.
Everything is ruins in this house,
the embrace and the music are ruins,
destiny, all mornings, laughter are ruins,
as are tears, silence, dreams.
The windows show obliterated landscapes,
flesh and ashes get mixed up in the faces,
words are jumbled up with fear in the mouths.
In this house we are all buried alive.
© 2004, Nicolás Suescún
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